


Of the old script you always rehearse

by Griffinous56



Category: Senyuu. (Anime & Manga)
Genre: (i think), Alternate Reality, Blink and you’ll miss it, Character Study, Don’t worry too much about the character death one, Gen, Heavy Angst, No Dialogue, a bit dark, also have fun figuring out which AU is which, cuz almost everyone in Senyuu died one way or another, slight Alba/Ross
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:40:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28036320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Griffinous56/pseuds/Griffinous56
Summary: Sometimes he wonders whether or not had he followed through with his tale.Or in which there are many worlds are left untold.
Kudos: 4





	Of the old script you always rehearse

**Author's Note:**

> This’s just a short work to resolve my writing block before I dish out other works for this fandom ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯ Also, English isn’t my native language so feel free to tell me about my mistakes, appreciate that.

The story goes out of the script but somehow still leads to the same end, like a broken film recorder too old to run right. 

_It started with a lie._ He was twelve, full of youth and contentment in life when his best friend got gutted in front of his eyes. Father’s blade was messy but his was always sharper and faster; still, he couldn’t plunge it into his father's head as fast as how _he_ ripped his still-beating heart out of his chest, for his blade was never intended to kill no matter how scary he made his threats to be. He died and was revived, blood in his eyes and down his throat and marred his cries as he faced a friend who shouldn’t live anymore. An emblem etched into his borrowed wrist, burnt his life into ash only to be reborned anew, and reared its head into something ugly and wrong with one word: vengeance. A wave of anger burnt with unholy, unrighteous, furious, blazing rage until it consumed him too and he became something more.

_In another world, the hero came back home and wept, wondering if it would have been better if he had died then and there, soul empty as his right side and a hole Father had ripped from his chest. In another, he was never revived at all. Yet in another, the older man took pity on him enough to wipe him clean of his past, serving as the demon king’s right hand with an iron fist and a void heart. In another, it was him who had his own body taken over instead of the other child, became unhinged, and killed the other one later in a mindless rampage—._

In this world, however, he was left as an empty husk runaway on an impossible task with a hypocritical sense of justice, heart locked in the darkness he could never get away from.

* * *

_  
It started with love_. He was fourteen, pampered and cared for all his life. He never knew hungry nor poverty for his father and friend were always there to lend a hand. Life was normal and ordinary and boring and he was happy.

_He was happy._

Somebody invaded the village, his mind no longer able to remember who led the attack expected the rancid scent of burnt bodies and blood. The house collapsed under the fire, father cradled his head and got his own cracked open and neck snapped. His friend dug him out under piles of charcoal and ash, whispering comforting words and a steady hand and handed over the apple from the tree they all cared for. Hushed exchanged whispers of _“Let’s run away and live”_ inside a dirty slave cart, quietly planning an escape plan under a blood-red moon. He escaped, the other didn’t, and he was reborn with a twisted face and even a twisted heart. In this world, it was he who invented magic and the nature of “Ma”, and rose as the one true demon king.

_In one world, someone was there to stop him, one of the familiar faces he had revived through his omnipotent power. In one world, there was nobody there to stop him and humanity had to suffer as a result. In one world, he snapped and slipped before even getting a chance to change, forgotten in mucky dirt—._

In this world, however, the devil _Creasion_ he became, a grotesque picture of what two children could be. Waiting with bated breath and a sneer he could no longer feel on his face, upon his empty empire of ash until a certain red fox came.

* * *

_It didn’t even get to start._

He was thirteen. There were an earthquake and a landslide. A boulder rolled and crashed onto their carriage, a flood of dirt took care of the rest. Mother and father were holding his and big brother's hands all the way down. He didn’t get to think.

* * *

_It started with a moment of reckless spontaneity._ He was eight. The chemical got caught on fire and the flame spread too fast for anyone to react. Their house was mostly brick and stone with some wooden panels and that was enough. The fire spread and didn’t stop. Father died inside the house, desperately trying to save his works; later left him wondering what was his last thought inside the burning house, did father think of him at all? Did he know _he_ was the one who started the fire when he tried to burn some of his paper so that they could spend more time together? They discovered his body two days later, just a black burnt crisp still stubbornly clutching his precious project. He managed to wake up his friend who was sleeping over on that day, and they both watch as the adults work on the flame. The earth underneath his bare feet prickled young delicate skin and felt hot from the flame. The guilt devoured him faster than the fire ever could, even years later with his friend's arms around him, saying _“You didn’t know any better. It wasn’t your fault.”_ Promising he didn’t hate him for it. He found him, some years after the fire and before their departure to the big city, hanging lifelessly under an apple tree. The words _“I should’ve been better”_ was his last thought.

* * *

_It started with hatred._ He was ten when the world around him collapsed in flame and devoured by hordes of horrendous monsters, _Rchimedes_ being the mastermind. He seethed, he hated, years of frustration from neglections built up to its breaking point and he collapsed under the breaking damp as he lashed out, a scream unregistered in his ears. He loathed Rchimedes for everything he never did and he loathed the world for letting it happen despite all the warning signs. Later, he came to loathe himself, for upholding the title of “Hero” for daring to challenge the demon king himself, selflessly sacrificing himself to protect others when in truth he did this out of selfish desires.

His one and only friend stood silently and loyal at his side as always. He brought down the sword, tainted with blood and hatred. His missing left eye burnt.

* * *

_His story wouldn't start if he didn’t exist._

* * *

_It started as a cliche old script of a fairy tale book._ He was nice and mellow and good and kind, a perfect choice for the hero role in a quest at defeating the demon lord, age and race be damned. He pushed like his many other lifetimes before his and fought just like them and himself _or was it themselves?_ He brought justice to the land and shared the knowledge in exchange for the dark purple sky for all this power in the world he couldn’t bring it in him to separate the boundary between human and demon’s world anymore, _heh where’s their hero of peace and justice now._ He lived on because that was the natural thing to do just as how he decided to seal himself and the demon lord because that was the right thing to do. The hero defeated the villain, he shared knowledge and power with the rest of the land and sacrificed himself to ensure a happily-ever-after end. Such was the usual script of an old book.

_He had grown too tired to care about details anyway._

* * *

  
Sometimes he wonders whether or not had he followed through with his tale.

Alone with his sixth serving of crepe smooched off the Hero’s wallet, he takes a quiet moment to look at the high blue sky above and think. Thoughts send to the lazy drifting clouds.

He focuses on the numb feeling of his left arm that he never comes to get used to, even after all these years. Trying to capture that one moment of despair in his life because that’s one constant between himself from all the existing timelines, the moment where he remembers to be the last time he was _him._ The circumstances may be different but the questions are always the same. Does he or does he not want to be him of this present? He thinks of home, the place where he can return to and be welcome with several faces he dares to call friends in his journey, making up a mental list and becoming terrified of all the decisions he could’ve made but didn’t, thinking of all kind of person he could’ve become but the one he followed. Does he or does he not destined for this life? Suffering through several lives does get old almost to the point where he becomes numb to it. The pain does become his definition. Does he or does he not make something good out of it? He thinks of the one “broken” demon he came across during his journey a thousand years back, of the clumsy hero grown great and nice, of the founded family tie by shenanigans and trust instead of blood, of _this,_ and that he knows is good. Does he or does he not turn his biggest weakness into his greatest strength? He thinks of his years as Creasion, always having to harbor all the bad and ugly in his heart, of the ache from his blown up limbs that never fades. He remembers how the pain would never stop and spread despite his best effort at keeping others from knowing the broken boy beneath the ragged cloak and dreadful eyes. Does he or does he not deserve this kind of salvation? He thinks of Rchimedes the second and all the goods he did, of Crea and his stupid grin and kind kind heart, of how Alba the clumsy boy and his unrealistic dreams without the guts to back it up has grown into such a dependable man. _Yes,_ hisses the twelve years old kid inside him, who never gets the chance to grow up. Does he or does he not make this life worth it? All the people he cares about died in one way or another, directly or indirectly by his orders. Does the pain he went through worth it? He doesn’t regret any of his actions and he knows for sure they all feel the same. Does he or does he not make this world a better place? _Yes,_ he thinks. Does he or does he not pay sweat and pain and tear for everything he archived and make it worth something? _Yes,_ he thinks. Does he or does he not build himself up from scratch from that village, make himself into something salvageable? _Yes,_ he thinks.

He focuses on the laughter around him beneath the gentle sun, on Crea’s loud snoring on his right and Alba’s excited chattering with Rchi’s on his left. He focuses on the way Hero’s eyes have a slight fond curl to them when he demands the seventh crepe. He focuses this very patch of the meadow he’s come to memorize throughout his many lives tickling his feet. The world around them is at peace.

_Yes,_ he thinks. For no matter what points he started at, the ending always worths it no matter how sweet or sour it’s going to be.

**Author's Note:**

> [ Humming along ](https://youtu.be/zS26Mw7OUNQ)


End file.
